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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25735171">My Best Habit</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/woakiees/pseuds/woakiees'>woakiees</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Triple Frontier (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Slightly suggestive, but no real smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:49:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,993</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25735171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/woakiees/pseuds/woakiees</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“'I know it’s late, but I don’t know where else to turn.'”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>My Best Habit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Santiago’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a sharp bang reverberating through his small apartment. He jumped, sitting up quickly, his heart racing in his chest as adrenaline flooded his veins. He cursed gently, digging his palms into his eye sockets. Loud, unanticipated noises still freaked him out every now and again, causing a near overwhelming sense of urgency and sometimes even dread.</p><p>Panic. He hated it. </p><p>He shook his head, running a hand through his short, graying curls, trying to gather his bearings, willing himself to calm down, but it was useless. Santi knew he wouldn’t be able to fully do so until he figured out where the noise had come from. Discharged for years, and he was still so always on guard. </p><p>And so he took a look around the room, thoroughly scanning his surroundings, trying to figure out what exactly had woken him up.</p><p>The glow from the TV was nearly blinding, his eyes having not fully adjusted yet to the room around him, but the volume was turned nearly all the way down. He knew for certain that he’d locked all of the doors and windows on top of setting the security system, so he knew it wasn’t an intruder. Nothing seemed to be lying on the ground, having fallen over on its own. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Maybe he’d been dreaming. </p><p>But right before he moved to lay back down, the noise sounded again, and this time, he was confused for an entirely different reason. It was without a doubt the sound of a fist pounding against his front door, but it was also the middle of the night — far too late for anyone to be out, let alone bothering him. He sighed a second time, swinging his legs off the couch (he really needed to stop falling asleep there) before moving to answer the door. </p><p>The second he saw it was you through the peephole, standing there with tears falling down red cheeks, the panic he’d pushed down instantly returned, but this time, he wasn’t scared. He was worried. </p><p>He unarmed the security system, removed the chain, undid the deadbolts, and threw the door open, his hands instantly reaching to take both of yours. </p><p>“Cariño, what’s going on?” he asked, his voice gentle and soft. </p><p>You could only shake your head, and the look of pure hopelessness that entered your eyes made his heart shatter just a bit more in his chest. He hated to see a woman cry, but he hated it even more when that woman was you. </p><p>Santiago pulled on your hands, starting to lead you into his apartment. “Come on, it’s fucking freezing out there.”</p><p>You’d hardly noticed, but Pope only frowned further when he felt how violently your body was shaking from the cold. </p><p>He shut the door behind you both, securing it again, hands on autopilot — a habit, one that he considered to be his best — before leading you towards his couch, taking the blanket that was still extra warm from his body heat and draping it around your shoulders. He made sure you were nice and bundled up, then walked himself towards his kitchen, looking for any hot beverage he could serve you that didn’t include caffeine. </p><p>There was still a canister full of little bags of your favorite Sleepytime tea. </p><p>He immediately grabbed it, ignoring the small pang in his chest as he did so, adding water to the kettle and setting it on the stove to boil. He peeked back into the living room to check on you, watching you for a moment as you simply stared at a random spot on the floor. Something had happened, and he was desperate to know what, but he also needed a moment to wrap his head around the fact that you were there, sitting on his couch after months. </p><p>No, no. He needed to focus on you. He could dwell later.</p><p>Pope shook his head, drumming his fingers against the countertop, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the water to boil. He took out a teabag from the canister, setting it in the first mug he happened to grab, then moved to put the tin back in its place, but he froze. </p><p>Months. It had been months since you had even spoken to him, and he still had your favorite tea stashed right next to his coffee that he made every single morning. He tried to tell himself that it was just an oversight, just something he hadn’t noticed, but he’d be lying if he said his eyes didn’t catch on that goddamned tea every single day and linger there until he could pull himself away. </p><p>It was a final piece of himself holding onto a memory, a ghost — a fleeting image he was so desperate to catch and hold in the palm of his hand once more. He was desperate to hold you again. </p><p>And you were sitting there, in his living room, but this reunion wasn’t at all how he had imagined over and over again in his head. You still felt so out of reach. </p><p>And maybe that was the reason that he turned away from the counter and walked towards the trashcan, throwing the entire canister away, letting the lid slam shut. </p><p>He couldn’t handle the ghosts anymore. </p><p>Pope didn’t realize the kettle was whistling at first, but he quickly took it off the burner, pouring just enough into your mug before carrying it back into the living room and setting it in front of you. You looked away from the floor and towards the steaming cup, blinking at it a couple of times.</p><p>“Thank you,” you mumbled, voice almost timid. </p><p>Santi nudged you gently, a silent “you’re welcome”. </p><p>And then there was more silence. More deafening silence that was driving him crazy, because it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. Not at all. It was filled with tension and anxiety and so many unanswered questions. </p><p>The biggest question at the moment though? </p><p>“Why are you here?” </p><p>More silence. His stomach sank even further, churning. He’d never seen you so unresponsive or closed off before and he wanted to help you more than anything in that moment, despite the fact that his chest still ached from the sight of you alone.</p><p>“You gonna tell me what happened or are you just gonna sit there and stare at nothing?” </p><p>He wanted to help, but he’d never been the most empathetic. </p><p>Your eyes finally fluttered over towards him, though you kept your gaze set on his nose instead of on his own eyes. Those deep, beautiful brown eyes.</p><p>“I know it’s late,” you mumbled, thinking he was annoyed or upset that you had come to him at such a late hour, after you treated him the way that you did. “But I didn’t know where else to turn.” </p><p>He furrowed his eyebrows, your words confusing him even further. “I don’t understand.”</p><p>You sighed gently, taking the mug in your hands, letting it warm your skin as you waited for it to steep and cool down a little more. “I really fucked up, Santi.” </p><p>“What happened?” </p><p>He watched as you suddenly grew embarrassed, looking away from him again, instead focusing your attention on a random string hanging from your jeans. The quick switch in emotions had his head spinning. </p><p>“We were in bed-”</p><p>Santiago nearly growled at the reminder of the reason why you stopped speaking to him. <span>He</span>, your boyfriend or fuckbuddy or <span>whatever</span> he was, didn’t like it when you talked to other men, and that included Santi.</p><p>You’d picked <span>him</span> over Santi, your best friend. You’d picked someone manipulative and controlling and Pope still hadn’t been able to understand how it had been so easy to abandon him for someone like that, how <span>you</span> of all people could be so blinded. But then he remembered his earlier adjectives — manipulative and controlling. </p><p>A little bit of his earlier anger and irritation returned. </p><p>“-and I moaned your name.” </p><p>And then it was gone again, replaced by…Pope didn’t even know what. Surprise? Happiness? Maybe just a hint of pride? </p><p>But that quickly vanished as well, the worry prevailing once more.</p><p>“Did he hurt you?” he asked, voice slightly panicked, hands shooting out to check you for some sort of bruise or injury. He swore to God, he was going to kill him if he even thought-</p><p>“No,” you answered, shaking your head slowly, hands taking Santi’s, holding them tightly. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”</p><p>He sighed a breath of relief, nodding his head slowly. </p><p>You didn’t tell him that you were scared he was going to, though, once he stewed in his anger for a while longer, and that was why you had decided to come to Santi’s place instead of going home, since he didn’t know where Pope lived. </p><p>“I’m done with him,” you mumbled when he didn’t say anything, finally turning your gaze back to him. “I mean it. I’m not going back to him.” </p><p>Santiago relaxed at your words, just a little bit, and he could tell that you were being sincere. </p><p>He also felt like a complete ass, blaming you for something that wasn’t entirely your fault, not really. You’d made the initial choice to be with the complete asshat, sure, but he knew it wasn’t your decision to stay away from him. He knew you’d felt trapped. </p><p>And so he found himself apologizing to you, reminding you of how you deserved so much better, how he’d always have your six through anything and everything. You sat there and you talked and talked and talked, until another bout of silence settled over you both, but it wasn’t uncomfortable this time. You were both just processing, trying to adjust to all of the information running rampant through your head. Santi finally looked at you, and you couldn’t not look into his eyes this time, lips twitching up into a small smile. He smirked.</p><p>“You moaned my name, huh?” </p><p>“Shut up,” you groaned, swatting at his chest, stomach flipping with embarrassment. </p><p>“You think about me often while you’re getting off, sweetheart?” His expression and his tone were both smug, but you knew he wasn’t really making fun of you, only teasing. </p><p>Your own smirk found its way onto your face. “Yeah,” you deadpanned, shrugging your shoulders as if your words held no weight.</p><p>Santi’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head, and he choked on his own spit, coughing afterwards though he tried desperately to play it off, wanting to appear unaffected. </p><p>He swallowed thickly. “What a coincidence,” he mused, still holding your gaze. “I can’t get off unless I’m thinking about you.” </p><p>Your entire body felt like it was on fire at his admission, and all you could do was hold his eye contact, heart hammering in your chest. </p><p>And while your words might’ve been suggestive, and your hands might’ve started to wander, everything you saw in his eyes was nothing of the like. </p><p>It was something pure, and sincere. </p><p>You saw love. You saw patience and kindness and forgiveness. And that silent declaration meant far more to you than anything else in that moment. </p><p>And Santiago saw the same reflecting in yours as he slid himself into you after kissing you brainless and touching every inch of your perfect body with his fingertips, the eye contact never wavering, the love only growing. </p><p>And in the morning, when you both woke up and moved into the kitchen to start breakfast together, you smiled upon seeing your canister of tea in the same place it had always been to your knowledge.  </p><p>Santi had gotten up in the middle of the night and taken it out of the trash, washing it thoroughly before setting it back on the counter next to his coffee.</p><p>He couldn’t live with the ghosts anymore, but he couldn’t live without you. </p><p>His best habit.</p>
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